


Anger Management but She Has to Manage Alcoholism, not Anger

by PoboboProbably



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, But Blackwall is a fucking champ, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, FUCK, Gen, I'm Not Ashamed, Post Trespasser, Post-Dragon Age: Inquisition, References to Drugs, Sorry Lera, THIS IS DEPRESSING, Trespasser, Trespasser DLC, Why Did I Write This?, i'm so mean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 07:21:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13429719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoboboProbably/pseuds/PoboboProbably
Summary: Well, maybe a little anger. It's mostly alcoholism. Also known to my reddit friends as the 'Recovery Arc' whereby Lera... recovers. But that's a bit on the nose for a title, I think.This series follows Inquisitor Lera Trevelyan as she struggles to come to terms with the loss of her arm post-Trespasser DLC. After spending a few incredibly depressing months as a raging alcoholic, Lera wakes to find that Blackwall has disappeared (again) and loses all hope. Will she ever recover? Who can say? (But she does, though.)The timeline skips around a bit since this is a collection of vignettes and there's not really a continuous narrative. All chapters are in chronological order, but there are time skips here and there.





	1. Chapter 1

_She's in a cabin. No, a carriage. The bumps in the road give it away. She's reading peacefully, minding her own business. Not much is going on, but it's getting dark. Too dark to read. She looks up. No light through the windows. Just dark. Another bump, this one harder than all the others. The windows shatter and shadows fill the carriage. She's scared, she looks around for a weapon, but finds nothing. Just dark. The shadows swirl around her, and before she knows it, she can't see anything. The shadows form into burly arms and tighten around her neck. Then they push, forcing her into the wall of the carriage before it finally gives way and she’s on her back. The shadows are choking her, and she can't breathe. She tries to fight back, but her legs won't move and her arms are getting weaker. It’s like she’s paralyzed. The shadows have her pinned down and she’s helpless. Rocks are falling all around her just as the shadows are twisting, gradually taking shape as a person. She can see the head, all she needs to do is grab one rock. She feels around, trying to find one within reach, but the shadow flashes in green, and she can't feel anymore. She begs her arms to move but they don’t listen, don’t feel anything. She looks around and she has no hands, nothing to fight back with. Her arms are gone and her legs won't move. The shadow howls and tears at her boots. Her feet are bare, and then the shadow rips into her leggings. It tears through until it reaches her knees, and then her legs are bare. The shadow flashes green again and crawls up her thighs, working its way in, and she can't stop it. She’s weak, helpless, afraid, she can't breathe, and she’s going to die._

Lera woke up trembling, drenched in sweat and with tears in her eyes. The phantom pains in her left arm swelled angrily, rising and falling to the rhythm of her quickened heartbeats. Heavy, hurt breaths fled from her lungs as she remembered the fear from ten years prior. The attack on the caravan, the attempted rape, the first time she took a life. It hadn't bothered her for so long. It spurred her forward, strengthened her resolve, but now it stung. 

It took a few moments, but eventually the pain subsided as Lera began shedding quiet tears. She did not find sleep for the rest of that night, preferring the company of a bottle to that of her dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the nightmare Lera has here references the trauma of losing her arm to Solas (that's why the shadow howls and flashes green) as well as a really shitty experience she had on a caravan when she was 19 when she almost got raped. Here's a link to the fic that details that lovely adventure:
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/12350046


	2. Chapter 2

Lera had neglected to go to bed for the third night in a row, much to Blackwall's frustration. Instead, she lay slumped over on a desk in her study, drooling over a copy of some journal entry or other from her days as Inquisitor. Thankfully, Cassandra maintained possession of the original journal, bent pages and all. In her one remaining hand Lera clasped a dark bottle, its contents nearly empty from the night before. A puddle of wax had formed as a result of the candle having been left unattended overnight. What was left of her other arm was held close to her body, as if it still felt the pain that the mark had caused. It was a sickening sight, and one Blackwall wanted never to see again. He sighed and stepped out the door. 

# ****

The process of officially removing the Inquisition's name from everything at Skyhold had proven taxing, and it was all Lera could do to keep herself composed during the few moments that it mattered. She rarely addressed the public, and when she did she did so only briefly. She never left the castle, and even while inside it she remained in her quarters for most of the day. Whatever boldness she was possessed of throughout her time as Inquisitor was taken from her at some point between the Inquisition’s disbanding and now. The anchor had robbed her of her arm, of her ability, of her personhood. And its creator, out there somewhere, was trying his best to destroy the world. What could she do to stop that? If it was hopeless before losing her arm, it was impossible now. She’d failed. Her worries mounted with each passing second and there was nothing left in her spirit to quell them. She was miserable.  
And now Blackwall was gone.

# ****

Though he no longer lived in the vicinity of Skyhold, Cullen remained within a few days' ride of it, having temporarily settled in a small hamlet nestled between the Frostbacks and Lake Calenhad. Naturally, he was quite upset to have his peace and quiet disturbed by the Inquisition's greatest liar. Well, its second greatest liar, at least.

"Commander Cullen," started Blackwall upon seeing the door open. The awkwardness in the air was not subtle.

"Thom."

Blackwall did his best to ignore Cullen's flat response, an obvious indication that his former commander's disdain for him had not subsided. "I came to ask for your help," he said. Upon receiving no more response than a raised eyebrow, he barreled through the discomfort between Cullen and himself and continued. "You know I wouldn't come to you unless it was something big. Something important. It's the Inquisitor."

"What's happened? Is she alright?" Cullen asked. It seemed the prospect of the Inquisitor needing his help was enough to arouse his concern.

"She... she won't stop drinking."

"That hardly seems like a problem for her," Cullen answered, relieved and amused.

"No, it's not like that. Not like before. She's been drinking more, and not for the fun of it. She rarely eats, doesn’t sleep… I worry for her. Every second," he admitted.

"Oh. I see," Cullen told him. 

"And it is beyond me to help her. I need you to come back to Skyhold. _Please_. I need you to talk to her for me. I don't have experience with this sort of thing, but you..." he faltered, caught between his worry and his manners.

"No, it's alright. You don't have to say it. We'll go at once."


	3. Chapter 3

Lera’s splitting headache served as evidence enough that she was no longer sleeping. She sighed deeply, her lungs struggling against the lumpy pillow pressed against her face. Stretching out slightly to test the soreness in her muscles, Lera felt the mess of her hair cling to her throbbing temples. She grimaced into the pillow before setting about nursing the hangover. Reaching over the edge of the mattress, her hand patted the air blindly for a few moments before finding and clutching onto the top of a wine bottle. She rolled onto her back, bit off the stiff cork, and woke herself with a hearty swig. The rush of warmth aroused her senses enough to remind her of her circumstances: the Ben-Hassrath defeated, the Inquisition disbanded, and its armless leader prostrate in the stale air of a dark room. 

The better part of an hour passed before she dragged herself out of bed and emptied the bottle of its wine. She could hardly blame herself for waiting so long, given her surroundings. Outside of her quarters Skyhold milled lazily about, its activity and population dropping with each passing week as the former Inquisition slowly moved out. Within them only dirty clothes and silence awaited her. Had it been five days since Blackwall left, or six? In any case, it would no doubt be many hundreds more before she ever saw him again, she thought. _If_ she ever saw him again. The prospect of his being absent forever left her feeling rather parched.

But before she could open the next bottle, the door stumbled open to prove her wrong. A heavy boot thudded over the threshold into the room. The footstep sounded like one of Blackwall’s. Had he come back? She turned to face him, shoving a clump of matted hair out of her vision and collapsing into relief. 

“Thom,” she sputtered weakly before running to bury herself in his chest, hugging him closely. “I thought you’d gone…”

Blackwall hesitated slightly, but responded to her hug by tightly wrapping his own arms around her.

“I thought you’d gone,” she repeated softly.

“I could never, Lady.” 

“Well then you could have left a note, you _arse_!” she cried, throwing the outside of her fist into his shoulder. “What were you thinking?!”

“What? I left a message for you. Didn’t you find it?” he asked, startled by the sudden hostility. “I put it on the nightstand.”

“You- you did? Oh... I guess I haven’t been in the bedroom very much lately,” she sighed. A quick search of the bedroom floor yielded a slip of parchment which rather vaguely read, _I can’t bear to see you this way. Be back soon._ Blackwall was no poet, she thought. “See me what way?”

Blackwall steadied himself for a moment before speaking, locking eyes with her. “Lera, you are not yourself. You haven’t been since the Council,” he told her, using the stern tone of voice he normally reserved for describing his own failings. Though she was quite taken aback by the declaration, she was denied a protest. “Look around you. What does this mess tell you?”

Lera, more out of surprise than deference, did as instructed. Empty bottles of wine and ale littered the room along with a handful of partially filled ones. Dust accumulated on the furniture to her right. Behind her was the bedroom, dark with curtains drawn and bedsheets half strewn across the floor. To her left sat a desk adorned with days old water rings and upon which sat a tearstained copy of one of her old journals. Further right, her eyes landed upon the vanity’s mirror. The woman inside it stood despondent. Black hair fell lifelessly around her face, and dark bags hung beneath her eyes. Her left arm clung tightly to her side, fingers twitching with anxiety. Her sweaty shirt held her body awkwardly, its usual form warped by the right sleeve’s being tied into a knot below the elbow. Lera bit her wavering lip, fighting the sting of recognition but refusing to break eye contact with herself.

“You are so much more than this,” Blackwall assured, taking hold of her one arm. “I need you to come back.”

The air was stiff around her as she turned to face him. But rather than meet his eyes, she instead found herself looking at the man still standing in the doorway.

“You brought Cullen.”

“Aye. I did. I don’t have experience with what you’re going through-”

“What I’m going through?” Lera interrupted, momentarily throwing Blackwall off his rhythm.

“But the Commander does. Despite my desire to, I am powerless to help you. He isn’t.”

At this, Cullen stepped through the door, unsure exactly how to address the former Inquisitor.

“Lera,” he cleared his throat. “It’s good to see you. H-how are you feeling?”

“I’m _fine_ ,” she spat. “ _Can’t you tell_?”

Cullen looked to Blackwall, letting out an understanding sigh before returning his attention to Lera. “Of course. Though I think Thom may have a point.”

“Oh, _does_ he now?”

“I think so. You should listen to him,” he affirmed, now having moved past some of the tension. “Look, I know what you’re capable of. I followed you against Corypheus. We all did. And we would follow you again if the need arose. But even in the absence of another emergency, the woman who saved Thedas deserves better than to end up _here_.”

Blackwall felt his place in the conversation shrinking and quietly made his way to the bedroom, where he drew open the curtains, allowing some much needed light to enter the room. He then set about tidying up the bedroom while Cullen and Lera continued their reunion.

“On that we agree, Cullen,” Lera answered, looking down at the knot of her sleeve, the dejection in resurfacing in her eyes and in her voice. The commander’s face fell, mirroring her own.

“Your arm. If I’d known losing it would hit you this hard, I’d not have left so soon.”

“It’s not as though you’re the one who took it.”

“No, but I shouldn’t have gone without making sure you were alright. It’s just… nothing really seemed to faze you while you led the Inquisition. You seemed so unstoppable then. But it wasn’t fair of me to expect you to brush this off,” he admitted.

“The burden isn’t yours to bear, Cullen. Why won’t you just go home?” Lera pleaded.

“Because you believed in me when I didn’t believe in myself. Your help kept me off lyrium when my own strength failed me, and I’m going to repay that debt whether you’re willing or not. So you might as well get used to it.”

The rising confidence in Cullen’s tone worked well; whether or not she could admit to needing any help, Lera could no longer deny that something, at least, was very wrong. Alcoholic misery was hardly a just reward for her efforts. That simple realization was as good a start as any.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Man, writing this one was _rough_. Lera's really in the thick of her depression at the start of this chapter, but improvements are on the way.


	4. Chapter 4

The clinking and clanking of bottles coming from the other room, while annoying, was definitely something of a relief. The months following the Inquisition’s disbandment had not been kind, but perhaps the light and clarity of sobriety would make the future comparatively more tolerable. One would hope, anyway. Despite knowing what good may come of distancing herself from her liquor, Lera’s hand still shook in want of a bottleneck to wrap itself around. Instead of searching for one, she clasped it into a tight fist and sat still. A dull pain hung below her left elbow: without alcohol to fog her senses, the ghostly pain in what was once her left arm ran unopposed. 

_You’re not real_ , she thought. _You don’t hurt_. Even as the words played across her mind she could feel her faith in them waning. Her closed eyes made room for the images that had once haunted them. Solas standing above her, working his magic, removing the anchor. The acidic sting of amputation. The low rumble of the waterfalls in the distance. The unsteady roll of glass on a hard surface.

Wait… that last one wasn’t a memory. Lera opened her eyes in time to see an empty wine bottle skitter into the room and towards the bed, where she sat. One of the men must have dropped it. Indeed, it was Cullen who stepped into view a few seconds later.

“Maker’s breath, how many bottles did you go through?” he asked. Lera simply turned her gaze toward the entrance, where two burlap sacks sat with their seams stretched by the many empty bottles they contained. “Er… don’t answer that. I don’t think I want to know.”

“How many are left?” she asked him.

“Not too many. Unless you’ve got any hidden under the floorboards, Thom should be collecting the last ones now.”

“Good. Get them out of my sight. I don’t want them in here again.” Cullen smiled, recognizing the former Inquisitor’s old authority.

“As you say, Inquisitor—hmm. I suppose I shouldn’t really be calling you that anymore.”

“No, I suppose not,” Lera sighed. “You could try using my name, _Commander_. I don’t think it would kill you.”

“Very funny, _Lady Trevelyan_. I’m relieved to see that your exacting wit remains fully intact.” Cullen then rejoined Blackwall in the other room and offered to take the sacks down to the store room on his own. “I’ll be back soon!”

Following his departure, Blackwall stepped heavily into the bedroom and sat down beside Lera, sighing deeply. “The commander still hasn’t forgiven me. Not that I blame him, of course.”

“Don’t say that, Thom. It’s been enough time. He should be over it by now.”

“So you say. But I’m not sure it’s possible to earn his forgiveness. Not after what I did.”

“If I managed it, so can he.”

“I don’t think Cullen has ever had eyes for me, though.” A laugh almost escaped Blackwall’s mouth in response to the small quip. Lera, however, was not so amused. She stood up from the bed, brushing hair out of her eyes and staring into his with some small cousin of disgust on her face.

“Is that what you think? Is that _really_ what you think? That I got you out of prison because I didn’t want to lose a lover? You know me better than that, Thom. You know I wouldn’t have done that if I wasn’t certain that you were worth redeeming. That you’d _already_ redeemed yourself.” 

“It was a joke, Lera. I meant nothing by it,” Blackwall countered, his face stern and his voice resolute.

“You’re right,” she admitted, looking down and letting the hair fall back over her eyes. “I’m sorry, it’s just… I’m on edge. And my hair will _not_ stay out of my eyes,” she growled, swatting it back behind her ears. 

“If it’s any comfort, your hair looks beautiful when it’s down,” Blackwall tried.

“I don’t care how it looks, Thom! There’s a reason I wear it up. I can’t aim with hair in my… I can’t aim when it’s… Well, I guess I can’t aim at all anymore. It doesn’t matter.” Her voice trembled as she spoke, as if admitting defeat. She breathed deeply, fighting what stubborn tears managed to break free of her control. Finally relaxed, she simply said, “I still don’t like it in my face.”

“Then let me tie it,” Blackwall offered, reaching up with a ribbon in hand. Lera batted his hand away, refusing his help and walking out to the balcony for fresh air.

Outside any attempt to brush the hair out of her sight would be futile. The wind this high up was violent and fickle, and its turbulence was reflected in the wild, back and forth dashing of black strands just in front of her eyes. Even so, that futility took a few moments to take root, and more than once she brushed her hand back through her hair in an effort to settle it. Once she managed to fight the reflex, she fell into a careless rhythm, swaying slightly as the wind pushed against her stiff body. She stood out there in the wind for several minutes before Blackwall stepped out behind her. A rather thick book was in one hand, and with his free hand he called her back inside. Curious, she followed him in.

“Do you remember this?” Blackwall asked her, referring to the book.

“It’s a manual, isn’t it? One of yours?”

“It is. It’s a book of knots.” Blackwall handed it over so she could see for herself. “There must be some in here that are possible to tie onehanded. You might want to—“

“Is this a joke?” Lera cut him off angrily, her voice faltering again. “Is this all a _fucking_ joke?”

“No.”

“Then what? Did you expect this to comfort me? It’s all I can do to keep myself from going insane up here and you bring me this? To taunt me?”

“I just thought that—“

“Is that right? Forgive me, Thom, but I find it somewhat difficult to believe you _thought_ at all.” Lera threw the manual hard at the wall. Furious tears welled up in her eyes. “Get out of my sight. Tell Cullen to stay away.”

Blackwall stared at her blankly for several moments before sighing and agreeing to the request and exiting the room.

# ****

Blackwall watched his feet as he descended the steps towards Skyhold’s main hall. He sighed, finally reaching the bottom of the stairs, but not going through the door to the rest of the castle. Instead he sat a few steps from the final landing, elbows on his knees and hands on his head. Lera’s reaction to being given the manual was just as he’d predicted, but that didn’t make it any easier to hear. _This had better pay off_ , he thought, just as the door swung open and Cullen walked through it.

“Thom,” he said, surprised. “Why are you down here? Shouldn’t you be with the Inquisitor?”

“Will you ever stop using that title?” Blackwall asked, shifting his place to allow Cullen room to sit.

“I’ll stand, thanks. Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

“I gave her a knot tying manual.”

“A what?” Cullen gasped. “I can’t imagine that went well.”

“It didn’t,” he admitted. “She threw it against the wall. Nearly broke the spine.” Blackwall chuckled briefly, feeling for the scar Lera had left on his forehead by throwing her journal at him upon his return to Skyhold. Throwing the manual was, by his estimation, a very good sign.

“Are you insane? Even for you, Thom, I must say this is incredibly insensitive. I’m going to check on her.”

“Don’t,” Blackwall ordered, extending his arm to block the way up. “It’ll only make things worse.”

“I don’t see how they could get much worse if she’s kicked you out! I have to make sure she’s alright.”

“She isn’t. She will be.”

“Not if you insist on throwing her disability in her face!”

“It’s not a disability.”

“Excuse me?” Cullen demanded. “I fail to see how losing an arm is not a disability.”

“With respect, Commander, I know Lera much better than you claim to. She’s stubborn as an ox, and just as strong. Come see her with me tomorrow morning and see for yourself the good that book will do her.” Blackwall maintained eye contact, staring up at his former colleague with a trace of the authority he once commanded in the army. Evidently, Cullen responded well to his firmness, agreeing to check on Lera the next morning despite remaining unconvinced of the manual’s effectiveness.

Sure enough, when the two men returned to Lera’s quarters with breakfast, they found her fast asleep with several strands of twine half tied into sloppy knots scattered on the bedsheets around her and one still wrapped about her fingers. The manual lay open on the floor at the foot of the bed. Blackwall gave Cullen a satisfied smirk.

“What did I say?” he spoke quietly so as not to wake Lera.

“I must admit I’m impressed, Thom,” Cullen said, surprising even himself with the admission and setting the food down on the desk. “But if you thought of that, why look for me? What am I here for?”

Blackwall’s faced turned somber in an instant. “I suspect she’ll go into withdrawal, either from time or stress. I need you to be there for her when that happens, to keep her course steady.”

“Of course I will, Thom. I owe her that much and more.”

“That’s not enough,” Blackwall declared. “I need a promise, Cullen. Promise me you’ll keep her steady.”

“Absolutely,” Cullen assured. “You have my word.”

“Good. Then I will wake Lera. She should be in better spirits now.”

Blackwall braced himself for whatever might come of waking her. That she gave the book a chance was encouraging enough, but there was no guarantee that her spirits had actually improved a noticeable amount. With any luck, this day would be brighter than the last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck dude, Blackwall having so much faith in Lera that he doesn't view the loss of her arm as a disability is amazing. What a champ.


	5. Chapter 5

Lera paced back and forth in her quarters, cheeks flushed and chest swelling with rage. Could Blackwall really have been so stupid? The manual lay face down on the floor by the bookshelf, a few of its pages bent by the impact and the spine slightly torn. Tying knots with one hand? What did he expect that to accomplish? As if it weren’t bad enough that her nerves were worse than ever without alcohol to calm them. Now he added insult to injury, literally. The fool.

Still pacing, she looked again at the manual, and then at the door. It was still shut from Blackwall’s departure, and would likely remain that way, assuming Cullen could stand to follow the man’s orders. Keeping her eyes on the entrance, Lera stomped over to the manual. Clean room, clean mind. That’s what Cullen had said, anyway. Couldn’t hurt to try it out. She scooped up the ruddy book and straightened out its bent pages before closing it and setting it on the desk to her left. Trying to calm herself, she sat on the bed and took several deep breaths while doing her best to ignore her hand’s want of a bottle to cling to. She let her eyes wander about the room, but without fail they consistently returned to the manual. And each time she saw the manual, her anger flared. _I can’t believe him_ , she thought, turning her attention to elsewhere in the room. _Tying knots one handed. As if that would help._

Only a few seconds passed before her eyes landed once more on the manual and she strode over to it to flip it open. The first knot she saw was some convoluted mess of loops that only proved what an idiot Blackwall had been.

“Thom, you arse,” she said to herself, flipping several pages back to look for a more feasible challenge. Finally, she came across a knot that looked much simpler and set about finding something to tie it with. Evidently, Blackwall had been planning on giving her the manual for some time, as the presence of a spool of twine on the bookshelf now made perfect sense. Lera cut herself a couple of feet and studied the instructions. A loop here, a twist there, a final tug to finish it off. Her first attempt at tying the knot went rather poorly, all things considered: she didn’t even make it as far as the tug before the string unraveled itself in her palm. The second attempt fared little better, as did the third and fourth. Her fifth try, however, met with a fair amount of success. She managed to get to the final step, tightening the knot with one end held in her teeth, though the resultant knot hardly resembled the one in the manual and was visibly flimsy. “Okay, one down,” Lera said.

For three hours she fought with the manual, trying over and over to produce even one passable version of the knot in the book and cutting herself new strands of twine after each one she managed to complete. It was bitter work. The going was slow, and for each relative victory there were several defeats. Nerves mounted and tension pooled in her straining fingers, but in response she pushed ever harder. She managed to finish ten or fifteen pitiable knots before exhaustion took her and she crumbled into sleep, her fingers still wrapped in her most recent attempt at tying them. 

_LATER_

“Good,” spoke a deep voice, “then I will wake Lera.”

Pressure on her shoulder. A return to consciousness. Lera greeted the waking world once more, slowly lifting her head from the mattress and wiping the drool from the corner of her mouth. Blackwall sat by her side at the foot of the bed, looking down at her hopefully.

“How are you feeling?” Blackwall asked her.

Lera buried her face in the sheets and stuck her hand in the air to show him the tangled up string before answering. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether I can get this damn knot to work,” she groaned.

“You seem to have managed well enough.”

“Well enough? You call this well enough? These knots are shit. And I’m shit.”

Blackwall’s face contorted itself into a fearful concern. “Don’t say that.”

“Why not? I was awful to you yesterday, Thom. I’ve been nothing but awful to you since we got back from Orlais.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Yes I have, Thom! Denying it won’t make me feel any better about it.”

The sound of a clearing throat informed Lera that she and Blackwall were not alone. Cullen stepped forward and knelt down to meet her at eye level. “Inquisi… Lera,” he caught himself, “there is nothing you could ever do to make us think less of you. I hope you know that.”

“Then you’re both far more misguided than I thought.”

“If this really is about the knots,” Cullen continued, “you should know neither of us expected you to master it on your first try. Maker knows we couldn’t have done it, right Thom?”

“Well,” Blackwall began sheepishly, “that’s one of the knots I practiced myself, actually.”

Lera sat up, curious. “You… practiced? Why?”

“What?” he chuckled. “Did you think I’d give you a knot tying manual without first making sure they could be tied one-handed? I haven’t got a death wish, you know.”

“People _do_ change,” Cullen muttered. In response to Lera’s look of disgust, he blushed, “I, er… sorry. Force of habit.”

“Get over it, Cullen.”

“Of course, Inquisitor.”

Blackwall was quick to change the subject. “How have you been tying these?”

Lera clumsily demonstrated the process, failing to keep the twine together long enough to tighten the knot. “That’s usually the way it goes.”

“Here, try it this way,” Blackwall said, taking the string from her hand and tying it himself. “It helps to anchor it with your small finger while you set up the loop.” When he finished, he produced a knot that put all of hers to shame. “Cullen, would you cut Lera another length?”

“Right away,” the commander responded, promptly delivering another two feet of twine. He cut two strands, wanting to try it for himself.

“Is this how you held it?” Lera asked.

“Not quite. Wrap it the other way around. There it is. Now pull, and…” Blackwall had never looked so proud of her.

“I can’t believe I never thought of that,” Lera said, stifling nervous laughter. “I was such an idiot. Thom…”

“Yes?”

“Thank you… _thank you_.”

“Hang on, I haven’t quite got it yet,” Cullen interrupted. “Can you show it to me again?”

Blackwall laughed and was beginning to stand when Lera pulled him back down. He looked down at her, puzzled, though her intentions soon became clear.

“He’ll show you later, Cullen. Can we have the room?”

“Why? I was just getting it and… oh. _Oh_. I, er… sure. Of course,” he said, cheeks flushed with embarrassment as he realized what Lera had in mind. He turned and briskly left the room, hand on the back of his neck and head shaking.


	6. Chapter 6

Lera stared the bottle down, contemplating the contents within and breathing into her fist. She nervously tapped her heel on the ground in front of her to occupy her nerves while debating on whether or not to pick it up. She studied its form, her eyebrows furrowing now and then as the details played in her mind. The smooth olive glass was bare save for the label pasted on the center. An Orlesian red. Not her favorite, but the first she saw when she snuck into the kitchens to retrieve it. 

She hadn’t tasted a drop of alcohol in two weeks. The clarity that brought was refreshing, she admitted, but also demanding. Demanding of her patience. Of her will. _You’re doing so much better now!_ they all said. _It’s such a relief to see you back on your feet._

They had no idea.

No idea about the knife’s edge she walked on every day to keep herself from returning to the safety and warmth of that fog. It tempted her every day, with every mention of Solas’ name. Did they really expect her to stop him? To stop _anything_? No. They couldn’t. Not when she was down an arm and wasn’t worth a damn in a fight anymore. Not when her ability as a leader disappeared with Solas through that enormous eluvian. It wasn’t fair. They couldn’t expect her to do anything about him. 

And yet, there they all were. Mounting pressure upon pain, looking to her for guidance, insisting that she lead them to victory yet again. Her nerves writhed at the very idea. She couldn’t lead anyone to anything. Not anymore.

Lera stood from the bed and walked forward, never taking her eyes off the bottle in front of her, lying in wait upon the dresser, begging her to come closer. Her hand trembled as she brought it slowly up and grabbed it by the neck.

_Just one drink._

The thought played over and over in her mind. Surely one drink couldn’t cause much harm, right? This was perfectly normal. Expected, even. Everything was fine.

She brought the cork up to her mouth and bit into it, savoring and dreading that delicious _pop_ the moment it came off. The scent of it reached her nose immediately, coaxing her further still.

_Just one drink._

No. That was weak. She set the bottle down again and paced about the room, her hand’s trembling increasing in intensity with each second. How could she even consider it? After everything Cullen and Thom had done for her, how could she just throw it away? 

_Don’t be ridiculous_ , she thought to herself, willing herself to calm down. She closed her eyes, slowed her breaths, counted to ten, and… felt no better than before. Her hand shook wildly. Her nerves still burned. Just one drink wouldn’t hurt. She needed this. 

She needed this.

Lera rushed back to the dresser and in one motion brought the top of the bottle up to her mouth, turning it upside down. Her lips parted of their own accord, and without thinking, she swallowed. The familiar and sinister warmth slithered down her throat and filled her chest, and at once she was relieved. Her hand stopped its shaking, her nerves were cool, soothed by the calming numb that rushed throughout her body.

There. One drink. And now it was done. Lera picked the cork back up off the ground and jammed it into the bottle’s opening, then sat back down on the bed. Almost as quickly as it had come, the numbness had faded. The pace of her breathing quickened yet again, and she wanted—no, she _needed_ more.

That wasn’t good. All she’d managed to do was to reset the countdown to her eventual recovery. No good at all. She looked again at the bottle, the vile drink within still swishing back and forth like a hypnotizing clock. She needed more.

But she wouldn’t allow herself to have it. Not after the progress she’d made getting the alcohol out of her life. She wouldn’t let that be wasted. 

Standing up from the bed, Lera took the bottle in hand again, but roughly this time. She then turned, staring through the stained glass that separated her from the balcony. It would not be wasted. She forced the doors open, stepped outside, and threw the bottle as hard as she could manage, not waiting for a crash before walking back inside and throwing herself onto the bed.

How could she have been so stupid? So weak?

_I hardly think it fair to blame yourself_ , she heard his low voice speak from somewhere inside her head. _None but I could have borne the mark and lived._

Solas. He was the reason for all of this. None of this would be happening if not for him. Lera’s anger rose with each breath as she thought of him. She would kill him the moment she found him.

_Live well, while time remains._

But then… that would require finding him wouldn’t it? And that would require abilities she didn’t have, as well as the strength to use them. What was the point in trying? She was useless against him. As useless as an unstrung bow. As useless as tossing a bottle of perfectly good wine out of her window. What a stupid mistake to have made.

But there wasn’t a crash. That was impossible, wasn’t it? Unless… the bottle must have survived the fall somehow. It was still out there, waiting for her. All she wanted, all she _needed_ was to go and get it and she could let that warm fog envelop her once more. Yes, of course! She ran back across the room and flew out onto the balcony, catching herself on its banister and scanning the area below for the bottle. Sure enough, she found it, nestled in the snow on a hill just outside the war room. Perfect. One of the windows in that room had a door in it, if she remembered right. And if not, it didn’t matter. There were still stones strewn about the castle in some places, and she could just as easily pick one up and smash her way through. But she wouldn’t get the bottle back by staring at it from up here.

Without a second’s hesitation, Lera sprinted back inside and headed for the stairs, making her way down to the main floor as quickly as her legs would allow. Her breath was ragged and her hand still shook, but she didn’t care. All that mattered was making it to the war room before someone else found the bottle. She was halfway down the stairs now, having turned blind corners without bothering to slow down. Her eyes looked not forward, but down, trained on the steps in front of her until she carelessly rammed into what felt like a soft, padded wall.

“Maker’s balls, Lera!” Thom grunted, clutching his stomach. “Where are you off to so quickly?”

She looked up slowly, attempting to catch her breath while she picked herself up off the ground. Why did it have to be him? Anyone but him.

# ****

“Are you alright?” he asked, taking hold of her arm and placing a gentle hand on her cheek. She’d taken quite a spill.

Lera refused to look at him. Instead she kept her gaze downward, averting her eyes from his. He read her posture and knew at once that it meant shame. Maker, had it finally happened?

“I’m fine,” she began, watery eyes still looking down. He thought could smell wine on her breath. “It’s just… I was trying…”

“Oh, no.” Thom caught on. He wrapped his arms tightly around her, pressing her head into his shoulder. She sobbed straight into it, the sound of her pain lashing at him. He had to help her, or at least try to. “Don’t worry, Lera. We can fix this. We’re going to fix this. Together.”

“It was only one sip,” she assured him, though what good an assurance like that did was doubtful. Just one sip. That was good.

“That’s alright, you’re alright,” he said. Then he muttered _oh, Maker_ under his breath, forgetting to quiet himself. _Damn you_ , he cursed himself. _You’re supposed to be the one with resolve_! “Don’t you worry. You’re alright. You’re alright.”

“Thom…” she sputtered.

“You’re alright,” he insisted. Maker, why was this so hard? _You need to help her_ , he thought again. _But how can you? What good are you to something like this? What could you even begin to tell her_? “Just… let me find someone. Someone to help. Stay here. I’ll be gone only a moment.”

_Pathetic_.

“Thom,” Lera pleaded. “Don’t go. Please.”

“It’ll only be a moment, I promise! I just have to find someone.” _Don’t leave her, you bastard! Hasn’t she had enough of that from you_?

He loosened his arms from around her, his hug slowly turning into a firm grip at her shoulders. He had to get Cullen. Cullen would know what to say. That’s what he was here for, after all. He stared into Lera’s eyes for a moment before he pulled away completely, speeding down the steps to the main floor. Throwing open the door to the hall in a panic, he looked around until he found someone, anyone who could carry an order to Cullen. “You there! Find the commander! Get him to the Inquisitor’s quarters at once!”

“What shall I tell him?” the young woman asked, bewildered by his sudden shouting.

“It doesn’t matter!” he yelled. “Just tell him it’s for Lera!”

“At once!” she said, speeding off to find him.

_Maker, Cullen had better arrive soon. You aren’t cut out for this—for helping_. He raced back up the steps to where he’d left her and took her arm yet again. She was still crying, and it was all he could do not to convince himself it was his fault. He should have _been there_.

“Come, now,” he assured her, rubbing what he hoped was a soothing hand up and down her back. “Let’s go back up and get you some air. Maker knows I could use it.”

# ****

Cullen sped up the steps to the Inquisitor’s quarters, fearing what he may find there. The message from the courier had been infuriatingly vague, and all he had to go on was Blackwall’s insistence that he make his way up straight away. Maker, what could have happened?

Finally he arrived at the top of the stairs and nudged open the door to Lera’s quarters. Once she came into view, it was quite clear what had transpired. Blackwall paced back and forth, muttering some assurances at Lera—or at himself, maybe—while Lera sat on the bed hugging her knees. Her eyes darted frantically across the room. Relapse. How much did she have?

“Inquisitor?”

“ _Don’t_ call me that!”

“Lera,” he corrected. “You don’t look well…”

“What gave it away?” she spat in response.

“Have you been tying your knots?”

“Knots won’t fix this, Cullen! They won’t fix _me_!” she nearly screamed, her breaths rapid and shallow.

“No, I suppose not. Thom, how much has she had?”

“Just a sip, she says, but I’m not sure. She threw the bottle over the balcony. She was running downstairs to get it when I found her.”

“Oh, Maker…”

Cullen paused, thinking. Withdrawal was never a pretty or easy process, but relapse was far worse. He’d never seen Lera in such pain. The sight of her panic was incredibly unnerving. He rubbed his forehead and sighed.

“Cullen,” Thom started. “Keep her steady. That’s what you promised.”

“I know, Thom. Just give us a moment, will you?” After a few moments of staring at him, Blackwall finally relented and walked out towards the balcony. “Lera, I know what you’re going through. You can come back from this.”

She ignored him, rocking forwards and backwards on the bed instead of reacting to his words. Cautiously, Cullen stepped closer.

“This isn’t the end, you know.”

“Why can’t it be?” she begged him. Maker, this was bad.

“Because there’s more to do. We can’t give up now. Solas is still—“

“Don’t talk to me about Solas!” she warned him, her eyes alight with fear and anger in equal measure. “There’s nothing I can do about him now! There’s nothing any of us can do about him.”

“That isn’t true, Lera, and I think you know it,” he persisted in his attempt to calm her.

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it really isn’t,” he assured her.

Lera ignored him again, turning away from him and returning her attention back down to the space between her knees. Cullen crept closer, until he stood right across from her.

“Look at me,” he spoke softly. She didn’t move at all. “ _Look_ at me, Lera!”

“What, Cullen?” she yelled, staring him in the eyes. “What can you possibly have to say to me?”

“This isn’t you. This has never been you. Don’t you see that?” For a moment, she seemed to consider what he was saying. Progress? “This is temporary. You _will_ beat this.”

“How can you say that with any certainty? I’m pathetic.”

“You? You don’t honestly believe that, do you? No one here thinks that, Lera.”

“No? I’m a _wreck_ , Cullen! Look at me! Would you trust me to lead anyone? I can’t even lead myself…” she trailed off, not bothering to wipe the tears from her eyes and looking off in Thom’s direction. Thom himself was standing near the open window and staring out the balcony, hands on his head.

Cullen paused to think for a moment, remembering Lera’s assurances to him when he was struggling with his addiction to lyrium. She’d always told him that he had power over himself. Power enough to beat the withdrawal. That’s what had helped him, more than anything. But she didn’t seem receptive to the same kind of talk. Maybe a different approach was necessary.

“You know what?” he started, completely unsure as to whether he was about to help or hurt. Maker, he hoped it would help. “You’re right. You _are_ pathetic.”

Something stirred in Lera after he spoke the words. She looked up at him with a tinge of shocked anger, raising one eyebrow as if to question his gall. Even Thom turned to face him with a suspicious look. But he had to press on for this to work. He had to coax more of Lera’s fire out of her.

“Do you think I’m wrong? You said it yourself, Lera. This is pitiable. You’re holed up in your quarters mourning a bottle of wine. You’re not the person who led us against Corypheus, you’re not—“

“You go too far!” Thom shouted, closing the gap between them. He looked ready to fight.

“Stay out of this, Thom!” Cullen barked, turning to face him. “I’m only telling her the truth. She’s been whining about her spilled drink for how long, now? Pathetic is the only word that could appropriately describe her right now. Or am I mistaken?”

“Show some damned respect,” he threatened. That was good. Thom’s intervention should arouse Lera’s anger even more.

“Respect? You want me to respect a woman who sits around and cries instead of doing what needs to be done? Respect is given only to those who earn it, Thom.”

“That’s it,” Blackwall growled, stepping close enough to feel his breath. “Not another word, Cullen. Get out.”

“If I leave, so should you. She’s clearly not worth your time anymore, Tho- _arghh!_ ”

Cullen doubled over and brought a hand up to his temple, rubbing at the dull pain left on it. Looking down, he noticed the glass paperweight laying on the floor by his feet. Then he turned to face Lera, who’d clearly thrown it at him.

“Maker’s breath, Lera, you could have chosen a lighter object!”

“Paperweights are given to those who earn them, Cullen. You’ve made your point. Now shut up.”

Thank the Maker, it worked. It actually worked!

“You’re feeling better, I take it?” he asked her.

“Enough to throw things at you, at least,” she sighed, still not quite herself but apparently past the point of crisis.

“You mean to tell me,” Thom started, “you did that on _purpose_?”

“Being nice was getting us nowhere, so I took a risk. Apparently, it paid off.”

“You damn bastard!” Thom answered. He sounded impressed.

“But Maker, I’m not sure it was worth the bruising I’ll get from that paperweight…”

“Don’t be a crybaby, Cullen,” Lera scolded him. “It’s quite unbecoming for a man of your stature.”

“I won’t if you don’t,” he told her. Somehow, miraculously, more of a glimpse of her old self shone through than it ever had since she disbanded the Inquisition. Cullen wasn’t sure how much credit he could give himself for that fact, but he was grateful for it nonetheless.

“It’s a deal,” she agreed. “Now go away. I want a nap.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woof. Relapse is not fun. But at least it's finally Cullen's time to shine! Thank the Maker his tough love worked. Lera throwing things means things are slowly going back to normal, so that's a good sign. There's still more to come, though. Eventually.


End file.
